How to get a Life
by pinkswallowsun
Summary: It's New Years Eve and Nikki is determined to make a change for the better this year. Her change? To get herself a social life and stop pining over Harry Cunningham. But how long will it last? Belated birthday fic for Audrey.


**How to get a Life**

It's that time of year again.

The end of the year, to be precise; another year gone, another 12 months flown by as life runs away from you, leaves you tottering along behind on your favourite pair of heels as you try in vain to catch up and reassert your authority over it.

That's how you imagine it, at least. So what if it makes you sound stupid? That's the image you have in your head, the scene which springs to mind whenever this time of year comes around. With each year that passes, a new one beginning to fill the empty space it left behind, the feeling that your life is fast running away from you only becomes stronger and stronger. And so with each new year that commences you decide that it's high time you caught up, embark on that new start, that new year, with the very best of intentions. This will be the year you better yourself, you vow each time, this will be the year you'll finally get a life.

It doesn't happen though, of course. It never happens.

The sad truth of the matter, you conclude with a sigh each time, is that your social life is non-existent. So is your family life. In fact, let's get straight to it, be honest about this: you haven't got anything vaguely resembling any sort of a life at all, not unless you count a work life. Because that's all you ever do. You get up in the morning, go to work and spend the next 10 hours in a home office morgue, shut yourself away with only cold, lifeless bodies for company, besides Harry and Leo, of course. Half of the time you don't head home until the day is almost done and it's dark and cold outside, cold enough to make you shiver just a little, pull your cardigan a little tighter around your shoulders as you cross the car park alone, climb into your car alone, drive home alone and spend the evening in a cosy, warm yet lonely flat. All alone. You run this cycle through 5 times over until you make it to the weekend, the odd night of lost sleep when you find yourself called out to a case at three o'clock in the morning along the way. Then Saturday morning comes and you sleep in until the rest of the world awakens and the sound of small, delicate birds chirping in the tree outside your bedroom window pull you from your slumber. You spend that day and the one which follows it alone. Sometimes you go out for a walk around the park, pull out the sheet music and attempt a rusty cello rendition that never quite sounds as good as it did during your secondary school days, curl up on your balcony with a novel when the weather's good and lose yourself in a fictional world in which happy endings exist and dying alone is a punishment only for the wicked, not finding 'the one' is unheard of, doesn't happen, not for anyone at all. And then before you know it, Monday morning comes around once more and the whole miserable, lonely loop continues.

No, wait. That's an exaggeration. Miserable isn't the right word to describe it, not the right word at all. You're not miserable, of course you're not, you would have become depressed a long time ago were you really that miserable. You might get lonely sometimes, but you're happy the majority of the time, content in your own company. You've always been that way; you've never exactly been a social butterfly. It's true that you're sadly lacking in the friend department, hence you having so much time to yourself; it's also true that this wasn't the case in your teenage years, your uni days, your time as a junior doctor and the years you spent training as a pathologist out in Johannesburg with Sara Laurence. It's true that almost all the friends you did have back then have disappeared in the last few years.

But you cope. You're not one of these people who can't stand to be in their own company, needs to be surrounded by friends and family constantly, 24/7. You couldn't be one of those people even if you wanted to; you've now nothing in the way of family and little in the way of friends to surround yourself with. Now your father's dead and gone you're down to just a small number of friends when it comes to listing the people who truly care about you (although how much your father cared for you in the last few years of his life is indeed questionable ), so few that you can count them on the fingers of one hand, you realise this year grimly.

Harry, he's the main one of course. Harry… your Ha…

No. Stop, Nikki, stop.

Anyway.

So, you conclude with a sigh this year, leaning out away from the sofa to take the wine bottle on your coffee table and top up your glass, you have Harry. And Leo. Leo and Janet.

And that's more or less it. You have Sara, you suppose; she might have first come into your life as your mentor, and a rather terrifying one at that, but over the years you've come to think of her as something of a best friend and a protective older sister rolled into one. The only issue there is that she lives on the other side of the world, not exactly ideal for spending the weekend with to avoid the loneliness which is starting to overcome you more and more frequently. And besides, she has her own family, a husband and three children; she doesn't need you clinging to her desperately because you have no one else. And that is probably what you would do if you were over there with her, when the constantly empty apartment and the silence of your own company got too much to cope with all at once. I.e. all too often and far too readily. All things considered, it's probably just as well you moved away.

The same applies to Martha. It's a curious relationship you have with the woman who raised you the first 11 years of your life; you've come to conclude this many times over, ever since you found each other again. It's something of a mess really, yet another aspect of South African society which still carries the scars of decades of Apartheid and all the repression and segregation and cruelty and unjustness which came with it. This woman raised you, gave you love and affection, was everything for all those years, to you that is.

But all the time she spent with you, caring for you whilst your parents were busy working, was time she lost with her own child, her son, Albert. What happened to Albert all day long whilst Martha was working for you parents, while she was looking after another woman's child who looked after him? It's not something you ever thought about at the time; you took it for granted just like every other family who lived the high life at the top of the system. Swiss bank account, British passport, South African lifestyle and all that jazz, life in Apartheid South Africa was easy if you were at the top.

Martha Manduna was paid to love you, back then when you were a child. Your mother took her on as a sixteen year old girl at the gas station up the road from your middle-class semi, gave her employment a world away from the slums of District 6. The first year or so she spent as solely household 'help', and then you came along and she took on the role of your sole carer. Maybe she did love you for you, but a part of the affection she felt towards you at least must have been because she knew your parents had to see it for her to keep her job. They could have dropped her without warning at any given moment- they did, when you were 11 years old though for other reasons entirely- she had to love you, care for you; hers and her son's financial stability depended upon it, such as it was. Now, more than two decades later, South Africa is free of that system and Martha is no longer paid to be there for you; the bond you have now is removed from the vested interests that may or may not have existed in the past. But sometimes, on the darkest of your lonely days when your mind wanders to places it really shouldn't, a part of you worries that the relationship you have now only exists because she _had_ to love you, not because she wanted to.

Maybe you should stop being so insecure and get a bloody life.

That, however, is easier said than done.

The last time you had a real, deep, proper think about all this, last New Year's Eve, you realised with a sinking feeling in your heart that even at its height, the social life you've had in England has always been pathetic in comparison to what you've had in South Africa. And your love life, now you come to think of it. Anton Radebe may have been a disaster in the end, but at least you managed six happy weeks before it all went wrong; that's almost twice as long as your best relationship here in the Northern Hemisphere has ever lasted.

In truth, you probably fit in better in South Africa than you do out here, maybe you relax more, make friends more easily? You don't know. There's something about the landscape of Cape Town, the mountain at its centre, the refreshing sea air and the sunny scent of Africa which makes you feel at home and comforted like London can't, no matter how long you live here, however long you stay away. The culture is different too; there's something about South African people which makes them more approachable, something you've never quite been able to put your finger on. It's the spirit of Africa, you suppose, no matter how much closer the world becomes, no matter how much more South Africa comes to resemble Europe as opposed to the rest of the continent to which it belongs, still there's a lively, friendly buzz to Africa you just can't find in London. And you miss it.

Screw it, maybe that's the answer. Maybe your resolution for this year should be to pack your bags and go, go back home, maybe the whole getting a life thing would be a thousand times easier to succeed at if only you were back in your natural habitat.

You attempted to get yourself something in the way of a social life this time last year, taking the rather brave (at least you thought it was) decision to dig out a rather old, worn pair of ballet shoes from the back of your cupboard and take up your childhood hobby once more in the hope of finding yourself some friends, getting yourself something in the way of a social life.

The actual dancing part went a whole lot better than you had expected, given it had been almost two decades since your last attempt.

But the making-friends part was, in all honesty, a complete disaster.

Sometimes you wonder if there's something about your character which pushes people away, puts them off, causes them to be perfectly pleasant to your face but not willing to turn an acquaintance into a friendship. You've a nasty feeling it's you, as much as you hate to admit it. Maybe you come across the wrong way: too posh, too up yourself, too cold and unfriendly, too forthcoming, too desperate for company, to… anything. Everything. You don't know. You try not to think about it too much, even on these New Years' Eves spent all alone in your living room sipping champagne. It gets you down after a while.

Maybe you should just go back to South Africa.

There's something about the warm African sun that makes you happier than the grim, greyness of London ever could. Sometimes, like this awkward, lonely, end-of-the-year time, you seriously consider it. You could go and work at Peppertree Mortuary with Sara, help out at the university here and there, she'd have you… wouldn't she? Of course she would. You could find a nice apartment on the seafront in suburban Cape Town near where you grew up and hopefully find yourself some friends and a social life, maybe even a lover, have a family…

Yes, it's perfect, you decide, ignoring the taunting little voice at the back of your mind reminding you that you think this every single New Year's Eve without fail in your desperate bid to get yourself a life, that the same small detail never fails to stop you in your tracks sooner rather than later, every single time…

It's perfect, the sure way to get a life, move back to Cape Town. You'll be happier there, more relaxed, settle in and find yourself a friend at least. Maybe even someone to spend your life with. It's simple. All you have to do is sell your apartment and hand in your notice, how hard could that b…

Be.

How hard could that be?

The answer? Honestly?

Pretty damn impossible.

Because to leave grim, rainy London behind you and exchange it for warm, welcoming Cape Town would mean leaving behind Harry Cunningham forever and having to settle for some other man who would undoubtedly pale so greatly in comparison you could never truly be happy again. However much South Africa makes you happy, Harry Cunningham makes you a thousand times happier. Which makes leaving London completely and utterly impossible.

You love him.

There, you've said it.

You only allow yourself to admit your love for him once a year, on these depressing New Year's Eves when you find yourself trying desperately to think up ways to get a life of some sorts, something to live for that isn't work and being all alone. Once a year is enough when you know full well he'll never be yours.

Why did you have to go and fall head-over-heels in love with someone who doesn't seem to love you back? It's just your luck. You should hurry up and get over him, Harry, you know that really. It's been 8 years since you first fell in love with him; if anything was going to happen it would have done by now.

And it hasn't.

Meaning that although he's your friend, your best friend, he doesn't love you in the way you love him, you know that, you've come to accept that. You know it only too well. Half the time he's already taken by some adoring 25 year old, someone younger, prettier; someone who makes you hugely envious without even trying despite the fact that you rarely get a chance to put a name to the face before he's moved on to the next. Even when he's between girlfriends, momentarily single, he doesn't spare you a glance, not that you notice, anyway. You're clearly not his type.

The trouble is, when you complain (as you always do at this time of year) about not having anything in the way of a life, it isn't strictly true. Because you _do_ have something in the way of a social life really, you know you do.

You have Harry Cunningham.

He's the only person you socialise with really, outside work, that is, and every time you wake up alone in the morning and remember you're due to spend the whole day with him, even if he's dragging you around some air show, your face lights up just a little, heart begins to beat a little faster. Because he's everything to you, he's all that you have, all that you could ever possibly want. You love him more than life itself, love his humour, his compassion, his heart, his soul, his always knowing what to say to make any given situation better, no matter how grave. You love that you can talk to him about anything at all and know for certain that he'll listen, pay attention, offer you whatever you need in return.

You love… him.

Except he'll never be yours.

Five minutes to midnight.

You sigh once more, refill your wine glass again and cradle it in your hands. To this year, then. This year, you're going to do it, whatever it takes. You're going to get yourself a life, stop pining over a best friend you can't have, find someone else to spend your time with because you know only too well that the longer you spend around him, the more you'll find yourself wishing your friendship would become something more. It won't; it's time to accept that. You're going to get yourself a life and move on and be happy and get over this stupid, childish crush on your best friend. You will.

You will.

You've just about convinced yourself of it when there's a knock on the door.

This time of night on New Years' Eve? You know exactly who it is.

"What are you doing here?" The words escape from your lips a little harsher than you pictured them sounding. Maybe it's the alcohol that's gone to your head, maybe it's the frustration and grief within you at giving up on ever having a relationship of the romantic sort with him for good, or maybe it's simply the lateness of the hour and the fact that you're dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a baggy t shirt; not your preferred attire for greeting guests. But whatever it is, you don't sound particularly welcoming. Why is it you never seem to do yourself any favours?

Harry simply smiles at you chuckles a little, reaches out to tuck a stray curl of your currently rather messy hair behind your ear. "Not pleased to see me then?"

Now you find yourself faced with two options. You know full well that if you engage him in conversation, you'll end up inviting him in. You'll wind up spending the evening together, and your New Year's resolution to get over him and get yourself a life will be ruined and doomed to failure before the clock even strikes midnight. Which you can't allow yourself to do, not this year; you have to move on this year. You're not getting any younger; know if you leave it too late you'll never find love and company. You can't let him in.

But the only other option you have is to tell him that you're not pleased to see him, and that you want him to go away and leave you in peace. You can't do that, you just can't, you can't turn him away. It's no use trying to deny it, you don't want him to go, you want him to stay, even if it's only in best friend capacity. That's enough for you, tonight at least. You're just so damn sick of being alone, want some company tonight, _want_ his company…

"Of course I am!" you insist, smile at him broadly, pull him into a hug. "Of course I am," you repeat, hoping to god you manage not to slur your words a little. "I am pleased to see you. I'm just wondering why you're on my doorstep at 5 minutes to midnight on New Years' Eve when you should be out getting drunk and partying!" You try and sound as light-hearted as you possibly can, hope you succeed, turn the attention back onto him. You can cope with talking about him. It's yourself you can't deal with, not tonight.

Unfortunately, Harry sees right through you.

"I could say the same for you," he comments, stepping into your flat and swinging the door shut behind him' he's staying. "You should be out getting drunk and partying too."

You can't bring yourself to lie to him. There's a strange, vulnerable look in his eyes which isn't normally present, and something about it tugs at your heartstrings, makes it impossible for you to lie to him.

"No invite," you confess, avoiding Harry's gaze as you cross to your kitchen and find him a wine glass, pad back over to join him in your lounge, pour him a glass. "But you didn't know that. How did you know I'd be here?"

He smiles a little, almost nervously, takes the wine glass from you and sits down beside you on the sofa, stares up at the ceiling for a moment.

"I didn't," he admits. "I was just hoping you would be."

You frown now, a little amused. "So you came all the way over here on New Years' Eve, on the off-chance I might be home?"

Harry blushes. Damn, you love him even more when he blushes.

"Pretty much." He shifts on the sofa awkwardly, opens his mouth, seemingly about to change the topic of conversation. But you aren't letting him off the hook that easily.

"Why?"

"Because…" Harry is a rather bright shade of scarlet now, blushing deeply. "Because I…"  
"Because what?"

"Because… well, I don't have a girlfriend at the moment, I broke up with Helen last week so… so I didn't have anyone else to kiss at midnight," he confesses at last.

"Oh."

Damn it, Nikki, is that really the best you can come up with? 'Oh'? Couldn't you at least have come up with something vaguely creative?

But you don't know what to say, that's the simple truth of the matter. A part of you is a little flattered that you'd be his back up option, but then the harsh reality of it all begins to sink in. Back up. That's what you are, his back up. Not his first choice, his backup; he came to your flat tonight because he wanted his midnight snog on New Years' Eve and he didn't have any other option.

And that hurts more than you could ever have expected it to.

"So I'm your back-up kisser, am I?" you retort, struggling to contain your anger at him now. It's all too much after your ponderings of tonight, too much to cope with all at once. It feels like he's taunting you, waving the carrot under your nose and then pulling it away again before you have a chance to grab it tightly with both hands and seize it forever. He's not doing it deliberately of course, you know that really, but it's hard to remember that in the heat of them moment.

"What?" Harry sounds genuinely surprised but that only makes it worse in your mind, makes you think that perhaps you've somehow gotten the wrong impression entirely and he never wanted to kiss you at midnight at all.

"No Nikki, no…"

"Then what are you saying, Harry?" you ask accusingly. "You didn't have anyone else to kiss at midnight, that's what you said! It's midnight on New Year's Eve and you haven't got a girlfriend, couldn't rustle up one of your goddamn 25 year old blondes in time so you thought you'd make do with me, is that it? You knew I'd be home because you know no one ever invites me out to these parties, I haven't got anyone else to spend the evening with; I'm just convenient! That's it, isn't it? That's it," you finish quietly, looking down, a little ashamed, a whole lot angry with yourself.

Why did you have to go and react like that? Why didn't you just go along with it, let him take advantage of you, just this once? Admittedly you know you wouldn't have exactly felt great about it later, but at least you'd have kissed him. At least you would have given yourself the chance to experience once more the feeling of his lips against your own, a chance to feel more alive and content that you have in years.

But now you've lost your temper with him, shouted. And now you've thrown away that chance forever.

Or have you?

Because now Harry is reaching out to hand your hands, taking them gently in his own, and pauses for a moment to look right into your eyes, open, honest, nervousness gone for the first time since he turned up at your flat.

"Oh Nikki," he sighs, voice a little apologetic, a little something else that you've heard in it before a handful of times, but never even dared to dream he would use in addressing you. "I'm sorry, I didn't explain that well at all, I…" he trails off, nervously, then seems to be overcome with a strange new sense of determination to get the words out at all costs and continues once more.

"I broke up with Helen because I realised she wasn't the one, that I wanted to settle down with someone I love and be happy and she just wasn't that person. I haven't got a girlfriend at the moment because I haven't had the chance to ask the only woman I ever want to be with if she'll have me yet. I… I came here tonight not because I just wanted someone to kiss at midnight, but… but because I want to kiss you at midnight, not just on New Year's Eve, either," Harry manages at last, hands shaking a little in yours as this final confession escapes his lips. "I… I love you, Nikki. I might have only realised it tonight, but I love you, I think I always have. And so… and so if you want to, only if you want to, perhaps…"

But he never gets to finish his sentence. He never gets to finish because you don't give him a chance to get the words out, pull him in close and press your lips to his, all your cares in the world suddenly gone.

Because sat there, kissing Harry Cunningham passionately on the lips like you never thought you would again, you realise that your New Year's Resolution is finally redundant.

You no longer need to try desperately this year to get yourself a life.

Because you have one now.

You have Harry Cunningham.

What more could you possibly need?

**A belated birthday fic for Audrey, hope you enjoyed it! I'm so sorry it's late, I've had a nightmare of a time trying to persuade to let me upload this, not sure whether it was the computer or my account or the site, but thankfully it's working now. Unfortunately it's also 2 days late, I'm sorry :( I hope it was worth the wait!**

**As ever, reivews would be amazing :) **

**Love Flossie xxx**


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